


"well, what do you want me to do?"

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [29]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Autism, Autistic!George, F/F, Fluff, Gossip, High School AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: PART 4The Wells & Wong Detective Society is launching an investigation into George Mukherjee and Alexander Arcady, believing them to be in love. To mirror this development, the Junior Pinkertons are launching an investigation into Daisy Wells and Hazel Wong, believing them to be in love.Modern AUWritten for the twenty-ninth prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	"well, what do you want me to do?"

**BERTIE**

“You forgetful moron!” Harold announces the moment I walk into our flat.

“Good afternoon to you too, my love,” I reply, setting down my bag and untying my shoelaces. “What have I done this time?”

He emerges from where his face was hidden behind an open cabinet door, an enormous grin on his face. “How was work, my love?” he asks, walking over and offering out a hand to help me up from the ground.

“Alright. I think we’re going to win this case or at least lose gracefully,” I reply, accepting his hand up and leaning in to kiss him once I'm on my feet. “Why am I a moron, exactly?”

His arms are still around my neck, elbows on my shoulders around hands clasped behind my head. “You forgot to tell Daisy about going out to dinner tonight.”

 _Shit_.

“Did I?” I ask in a weak voice, now remembering the fact that I had put my phone in my pocket after telling Harold that I absolutely would send the message.

He suddenly bursts into laughter, bowing his head into my chest with his shoulders heaving up and down. “You are the most forgetful young man I have ever met,” he announces.

“Did she message you or something?” I ask, tugging him over to the sofa. He makes me lay down with him, myself with my back pressed up against his chest.

“My brother was talking to her about it and she was _astonished_ that she hadn't been told,” he says, doing an imitation of Daisy's voice on the word 'astonished'. “Daisy messaged me from his phone when he showed her the message I sent.”

“What did she say?” I ask, knowing that my sister was doubtless less than charming.

Fishing out his phone, he dramatically puts on a high-class Daisy-ish voice and reads out, “Harold, please tell my brother to go and fuck himself for forgetting to tell me about the dinner we’re apparently having.”

I snort. “How delightful. What time is it?”

“Half five?” he says, sighing and wrapping his arms around my torso. “We have time. We don’t have to get ready yet.”

I feel his head bow against my back and his breathing evens out.

* * *

**ALEXANDER**

It is seven o’ clock and George will not put on his shoes.

I sound like the babysitter of a belligerent toddler; allow me to start again.

George’s father has flown to a medical conference in Paris and George’s mother is with her, meaning that I traipsed over to his house about an hour ago to rifle through his ties and steal his shoe polish.

We were supposed to be there five minutes ago but, before we left, I noticed George looking uncomfortable.

“What is it?” I asked, and he withdrew from my hand on his shoulder.

“Textures,” he says, and I internalise a groan. It is the only thing he gets freaked out about that irritates me, simply because I cannot do anything: when the feeling of something touching him begins to freak him out.

“Put on your shoes.”

“No.”

“George! We’ll be late.”

“I don’t want to be late.”

“Then put on your shoes!”

“No!”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“If you would kindly _fuck off_ , that would be fantastic.”

Now I am sat on the sofa, jackhammering my leg up and down and texting Harold because George will not have me trying to comfort him.

 _Alexander, where are you? And do you know where my brother is?_ he messaged me two minutes ago.

_I’m at your house._

_Why?_

_I went over to steal one of his ties and their shoe polish but he’s in one of those states where texture freaks him the hell out._

_Oh, that’s not good. Here, I know what you should go. Dress down to whatever level he is (like, take off your jacket or whatever) and sit where he is (against the door, if I know my brother). After a bit, put on your blazer, do your tie, do whatever he needs to do to complete getting ready. George is a mimic so he’ll follow what you do._

_Thanks, man. I owe you one._

I chuck down my phone and take off my blazer, shocks, and shoes, and go to sit down beside George, against the door. “Hey,” I say to him. “What do you reckon Daisy will wear?” As I say this, I start to put on my socks.

“I don’t know,” he replies thoughtfully. Just as Harold said, his hands mirror my own and he starts to copy me. “I don’t know what she dresses in when she isn’t trying to seduce some middle-aged man for the case.”

“Perhaps Hazel will be convinced to wear a Hong Kong dress.”

“They’re called cheongsams,” he says, brushing a hand back through his hair before automatically going to put on his shoes.

After a few more snatches of conversation, he gets to his feet and — still looking uncomfortable, as if something is crawling on his skin — picks up his jacket.

“Wait.” He turns to me. “You sneaky prick!”

I get to my feet and hold out a hand to help him up. “What do you mean?” I ask with my mouth curled into a cheeky smile.

“Idiot,” he says with his head shaking fondly. “Let me go and find my noodle.”

The noodle is this silicone stimming toy that Harold procured for George and Daisy off some internet website. They’re the quietest thing for stimming ever and I’ve stolen it occasionally.

When I pick up my phone, there’s a reply to my message, _Thanks, man. I owe you one._

 _Don’t fuck my brother after dinner tonight and we’re even,_ Harold has said.

Frantically, I message him back. _What the fuck makes you think that?_

_I have eyes, Alexander._

* * *

“Alexander! I’m so glad you could make it!” Hazel says, throwing herself at me. “You’re _late_.”

“I know,” I say, hugging her back. “Where’s our table?”

She takes my arm and leads me over to the table. “Here they are!”

“Alright?” Harold asks, nodding to George.

He nods in reply and sits down in the chair beside Harold, twisting the yellow silicone with dexterous fingers. Bertie smiles gently at me. “Arcady, word has it that you’re becoming quite the sensation at Weston and Deepdean.”

“Lord, not that,” I say, laughing and leaning back in my chair. “All the rubbish about… what is it?”

“You having a drunken night with hot prom royalty?” Daisy suggests with a laugh in her voice, and an assessing look to accompany it that I cannot decipher.

_Does she know?_

Harold barks a laugh. “Nonsense!” he cries. “What did you do on the night of prom?”

“Stumble back to George’s,” I reply with a smile, only just realising how it sounds.

“He passed out in my bed. I ended up on the couch,” George adds. “Your prom was a disaster, right?” This is said with a nod to Harold.

“Right. Allow me to tell you a story of misery and suffering,” he says in a dramatic voice.

George elbows me. “Look at Hazel.”

* * *

**HAZEL**

I’m staring at Daisy. She’s looking at Harold, eyes wide as she listens to his story. I can tell that she really likes Harold — I’ve always been able to tell when she’s very partial to someone — from the way that she twinkles at him, her eyes bright and her entire posture improper and engaged. She acts that way with very few people: Bertie, Uncle Felix, her father, Harold, George, Beanie, Kitty, and sometimes Alexander and Lavinia.

Then there’s how she looks at me.

Even when she is furious with me, Daisy looks at me like I am… a solution. An idea that she has just come up with, the answer to all her problems. It is not an engaged look, more of a tired and comfortable look, as if she could curl up against me and sleep forever. If she ever fights with someone, I can go up to her and set a hand on her shoulder and all her muscles relax under my hand as if I am magical.

I’m not sure what makes me different, but it cannot be what I think.

“Halfway through the night, Bly decided to kill the mood and bring up solipsism, which is the belief that everything around you is your imagination,” Harold said, one elbow on the table as he gestured theatrically.

“That does sound like Bly,” George says with an eye roll. “Ruining everything in some way.”

“Somebody’s bitter,” Bertie notes, grinning at him.

“I hate Bly!”

“If everything around me is made up,” Daisy says in a thoughtful tone, “then Hazel is the best thing that I’ve come up with.”


End file.
